Silence
by Silvermoon42
Summary: Rain pours down from the Los Angeles sky, creating accidents and danger for everyone who lives there. When Station 51's men are caught in a mudslide, they must survive while those left behind must deal with the aftermath. Everyone from the station is involved.


**I have to admit, I was a little nervous about posting this. This isn't my first fanfic, although it is the first time I've posted something on the Emergency! side of things. Love the show, always will.**

 **I tried to mix in some humor with everything else that goes on, so that it doesn't get just really dreary and boring to read. There is some bad language in this, but nothing too bad and not a lot. It isn't the main focus of the story, so it's just in there where I think they would curse.**

 **Well, I hope all goes well. Read and enjoy!**

 **Disclaimer: All rights for Emergency! go to its rightful owners.**

* * *

Rain splattered the windshield of his car as he drove, the squeaking of the wipers on the glass his constant companion. Captain Hank Stanley sighed and flicked on the left-hand turn signal, waiting for a break in the flow of cars so he could pull into the driveway beside the station. With the downpour beating a steady rhythm over the entire city, it seemed everyone was either hurrying, crawling, or wrecking.

People always joke that Californians panic whenever it rains. That may be true, but it wasn't entirely their fault. The oils that settle deep in the pavement rise to the surface and create a slick coating that drivers just aren't used to dealing with…

Seeing a car take the corner too fast and slide over into the next lane – which was mercifully empty – Hank sighed again. Whatever the case, any kind of weather aside from the norm just served to make _his_ job utterly exhausting.

Finally he was able to make his way through a break in the cars and pull into the driveway, quickly finding his spot and parking. He shut off the engine and sat looking out the side window for a minute, hoping that the rain would pause for just a few seconds, enough for him to dash across the lot and get into the station without becoming instantly soaked.

No such luck.

Hank grabbed the umbrella sitting on the passenger's seat and loosened it, prepared to quickly snap it open. Then, trying to convince himself that he would be changing into uniform in a minute anyway and it really didn't matter if he got wet or not, he pushed open the door and slid out, hunkering his tall frame as best he could under the thin fabric as he paused just long enough to lock his car then hurry to the station door.

Once inside he blew out a sharp breath and shook off his umbrella, leaning it against the wall to dry. Then he went to the locker room to change, taking in the empty bay as he passed through. Seems B-Shift was working.

He was the only one there, as he routinely came in a half-hour before the start of his shift to catch up on paperwork in relative peace and quiet before his twits arrived.

After he changed and poured himself a cup of still-warm coffee, Hank strode to the office and flipped the log book open. _They're_ really _working,_ he thought, taking a sip.

It was only a few minutes later that he heard the bay door open and the engine and squad back in. He went to the door and leaned against the frame, watching as four weary firemen and two paramedics climbed down and trudged past, giving him polite nods and a quiet "Cap."

B-Shift Captain Jordan Graves approached him. "Hey, Hank."

"Jordan," Captain Stanley greeted. He looked over at the other Captain, who looked exhausted. "Bad run?"

Jordan ran a hand through his graying hair and sighed. He went into the office and fell into the chair. "Yeah." His left hand pulled the log book across the desk as his right grabbed a pen. Hank was silent, knowing that sometimes people just didn't want to talk about things.

"You want coffee?"

"Yeah, thanks." He didn't even look up from his report as Hank left and grabbed another mug, filled it, and topped off his own before returning and placing it on the desk. Jordan grabbed it and gratefully took a mouthful. He made a face. "Ugh, Anderson must have made this."

Stanley chuckled. "I know how you feel. A couple of mine can't cook to save their lives."

"But how hard is it to make a good cup?" Jordan complained, but continued to drink it. Even if it did taste terrible, it contained the caffeine needed to keep him awake at least long enough for him to finish the few minutes left on shift.

Hank shrugged.

Jordan took another sip then suddenly pulled it away and rubbed a hand over his mouth. "Oh, before I forget, we've got reports that all this rain's loosened the earth up in the hills. I heard they're getting pretty anxious up there. You know how it is…Go so long without rain and all the plants die; well, there goes the support."

"Yup," Stanley sighed. "We don't get enough rain, but when we do we get problems. Well, thanks for the warning. I'll pass it on to my guys. Anything else I should know?"

Jordan shook his head and muttered something unintelligible and went back to his report. Hank took the cue and grabbed a stack of papers and went to the day room. B-Shift was sitting around the table drinking coffee and talking. Hank paused before the couch to shove Henry over to make enough room for him to sit. The dog's large, heavy head flopped down onto his lap. Hank scratched his back and went through the papers.

It wasn't long after that that his engineer Mike Stoker appeared in the doorway with an umbrella. He shook it off and greeted the guys with a silent nod before hurrying to change. No doubt he'd also go and inspect the engine, as all good engineers should.

Over the course of the half-hour, A-Shift arrived at the station, all with umbrellas and looking cold. Hank kept an eye on his arriving men, noting who came in when, what their general mood seemed to be, and their overall wellbeing. Nothing too out of the ordinary. He just hoped the shift would be a quiet one.

"Hey, Cap," Marco greeted him. "Hey, Henry."

Then the time was up and B-Shift started to leave, leaving just the A-Shift men sitting around the day room and chatting. Johnny was talking with Chet about football when Hank pushed Henry off before standing and stretching. "Roll call in five," he called, and his men nodded. Given the weather, he was surprised that they were all here and on time.

His men lined up before the Engine ready for their assignments. Hank glanced them over, pleased that they were all there and healthy. "Right, assignments. John and Marco bay, Roy kitchen, Mike dorm, Chet latrine."

Chet looked unhappy but didn't complain. They all knew the rule: last one to the station gets latrine.

"Also, be warned that the rain has loosened the earth in the hills. We might have the _great_ pleasure of washing and polishing our vehicles after every run."

No laughs? Not even a chuckle? Fine.

"Get to it." He headed to his office as the men dispersed.

* * *

"Now see Roy, all you have to do is get her flowers." Johnny tapped the clipboard on his leg and looked down at his partner, who had his hands buried in the drug box and was counting their supplies.

"Uh-huh. And you think it'll be that easy? We're good on saline."

"Yup," Johnny said, giving an affirmative nod, either ignoring or not hearing Roy's dry response. "The ladies always fall for flowers. Just get her some and you'll be fine!"

"Gonna need more morphine. And how have flowers worked for _you_?" Roy ran his hand over the syringes, counting as he did so.

"Great!"

"It didn't work on Bella."

"Ah, she's just an anomaly." Johnny wave a dismissive hand. "Don't worry about it! Chicks dig flowers."

"So you keep saying." Roy latched the lid on the drug box and slid it back into its compartment. Then he pulled out the biophone and screwed on the antenna, picked up the phone and said, "Squad 51 to Rampart morning check. How do you read me?"

Dixie's response came a moment later. "Loud and clear, 51."

"Sending you a strip, Rampart. Lead two."

"We've got it. Looks good. Have a good one."

"You too. 51 out." Roy stood and replaced the boxes, shutting the doors before turning to his partner. "Look, I appreciate you trying to help out. I really do. But could you just let me deal with Joanne? She _is_ my wife, you know."

"Sure," Johnny said, and passed the clipboard to Roy. "You could just…make it up to her, you know?"

Roy sighed. "Johnny, do me a favor?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

Johnny's mock-hurt protests were interrupted by the klaxons blaring out their first assignment of the shift.

"Squad 51, woman with trouble, 1008 West Bach Street. 1-0-0-8 West Bach Street. Time out, 9:12."

Captain Stanley acknowledged the call and passed the slip to Roy, who gave it to Johnny. "Go right," he said, all professionalism.

The woman 'with trouble' turned out to be a woman 'with trouble getting her cat to come down out of the tree'. Why it wanted to be up there in the rain – which had mercifully slowed to a fine mist – they had no idea.

Getting the cat down required gloves and turnouts – it didn't seem to want Johnny anywhere near it. They returned the indignant creature to the woman and gave her a lecture about calling the fire department only for _real_ emergencies, to which she replied, "Dusty _is_ an emergency! You have no _idea_ how many times I've tried to get him down! Look!" She held out her arm and displayed an impressive amount of red scratches.

"Ma'am, maybe he'd just like to be left alone," John said cautiously. Pet owners were known to be a bit…odd sometimes.

"Oh, I couldn't do that – Dusty doesn't like to be by himself! He loves me too much to stay away." She hugged him, and Dusty's yellow eyes narrowed.

"Yeah, he _loves_ her," Johnny muttered to Roy as they packed up their things. "Honestly, people are weird."

"Yup."

They weren't even halfway back to the station when they got their second call, to an old man who had slipped on the wet tile of his kitchen. His door did not seal properly, and a thin film of water had seeped in underneath, coating the floor and catching him unaware. Luckily he hadn't injured himself too badly – just a bruised hip and pride – so they helped him up and went on their way.

Johnny cleared the squad and leaned forward in his seat to look up at the ominous clouds rumbling overhead. "Wonder how long the storm's gonna last."

"Probably not too much longer," Roy replied, slowing for a red light. "Rainstorms don't last long here. It'll probably be done by tomorrow."

"I hope so." Johnny leaned back and pulled his jacket tighter around himself. "Just as long as we don't have to go into the sewers again."

Roy glanced at him. "Yeah."

For several minutes the only sounds were the traffic, the rain, and the rumbling of the engine. Then Johnny shifted. "So…what do ya say to locking Chet out in the rain?"

* * *

The creak of the bay door alerted Hank that the squad was back, and the slamming of doors confirmed this. The two men headed into the day room, and the bay door slowly creaked down again, shutting off the damp smell that accompanied the outdoors lately.

He paused in the paperwork to listen to the conversation in the next room, gauging how the paramedics were doing after that last run. 'Man down' could really be anything, so he was pleased when their tones were light and friendly. Must have been an easy run. He put his head down to get back to work even while keeping an ear open.

"I'm telling you, Roy, the opportunity is _now_!" Johnny eyed the door, through which Chet had disappeared to take out the trash. "Get the key!"

Roy, sitting on the couch with the newspaper, barely looked up. "Get it yourself. I'm not your servant."

Marco walked in then, and Johnny spun around, pointing at him. "Get the keys!"

Startled, Marco turned and was reaching agonizingly slowly for the keys when Chet walked back in, and Johnny groaned, collapsing on the chair. "Great, just great," he muttered.

"Losing the argument with yourself, Gage?"

"Eh," Johnny groaned, making a face. He looked over at a tap on his shoulder and saw Marco holding out the keys, a bewildered expression on his face. "Oh, forget it." He waved a dismissive hand, and Marco replaced the keys on their hook before going over to get a cup of coffee then sitting beside Roy.

"What's up with Johnny?" He took a sip and warily eyed Gage over the rim.

"Oh, he's nuts. Have you seen this? Look how high those prices are! Eighty cents a gallon! Ridiculous."

The klaxons blared, sending the men to their feet in a surge of adrenaline. They skidded to their positions and strapped on their helmets as the Captain wrote out the address and gave it to Roy, then jogged over to his seat as the door raised. Johnny frowned down at the scribbled address.

"I swear, his handwriting's as bad as a doctor's!"

They responded to an auto accident under an overpass, where a truck had foolishly tried to go under the too-low bridge. The top of the truck was folded in on itself like an accordion, and the front wheels of the cab were lifted an inch or so off the ground. The driver was standing off to the side, arms crossed and glaring at his vehicle.

"Of course this happened! It always happens!"

Roy and John hovered next to the man, scanning him for any injuries while Captain Stanley attempted to get a complete story from him.

"Did you not see the height warnings?"

The rest of the crew were hanging out by the engine; with no oil or gasoline spill to wash off, no flames or smoke, and no trapped people to extricate, they were fairly bored. So they quietly snickered at the unfortunate driver – out of sight of curious onlookers and their captain, of course.

"Of course I saw it – they're impossible to – I just didn't think!" The man was wildly waving his hands around as he spoke, and Hank took a step back to avoid getting accidently clobbered.

"Well, if no one's injured and there's no danger of fire, once the police and tow-truck get here we'll head out."

"Whatever." The man crossed his arms again and glared sullenly at his truck. "Why _me_?"

Something the man had said earlier had stuck in his head, and Johnny couldn't help but ask, "Has this happened to you before?"

The man drew himself up, his jaw tightening. "No," he said, definitely and certainly.

Johnny didn't believe him.

* * *

The engine backed into the bay, full of firefighters who were full of snarky comments and mocking exclamations.

"But _how_?" Chet exclaimed, jumping down from his seat. "I mean, he _saw_ the bridge, so how come he didn't just stop?"

"Obviously the burger was just too good," Marco grinned. "Bridge, burger. Take your pick."

"Burger," Chet groaned, going to the fridge and tugging open the door. "Who's cooking?"

"Roy is."

"Aw, come on! Can't we just skip his turn?"

"Now, Chet, are you putting down a station mate's cooking skills?" Hank asked, sprawling his lanky frame on the couch and raising an eyebrow at his lineman.

Chet pulled his head out from the fridge. "Yeah, Cap."

"Good, just making sure I heard you correctly." Hank slapped the arm of the couch and looked down at Henry. The dog yawned and turned on his back, stretching all four paws out in the air and presenting his underside to the captain. "Classy."

Hank pressed one finger to the dog's pad, tickling the soft fur there. Henry's hind legs, which were stuck out over the captain's lap, jerked, and the dog briefly opened one lazy eye, decided it wasn't worth the effort, and slid it closed again. Hank waited a moment before doing it again, and this time Henry growled softly before shifting again onto his side, his back paws now pressed into Hank's ribs.

"Lazy mutt," Hank said affectionately. Mike, who was reading on a nearby chair, grinned. Hank raised an eyebrow and the engineer simply went back to his book.

"Did anyone hear what the squad's call was?" Chet suddenly asked a few minutes after they'd been at the station. He held a pack of crackers in one hand, and the crumbs were sprinkled liberally over his mustache.

"Broken arm, I think."

"Great, that'll keep 'em busy for a while." He smirked and hurried out of the day room, tossing the crackers onto the table. He reentered the room several minutes later, a triumphant look on his face.

"I was in the office doing paperwork and never knew that you planned anything," Hank preempted him, getting up and leaving. Chet shrugged and turned to the two remaining firemen.

"Don't use the sink in the middle," he said.

"What'd you do?" Marco asked curiously. Chet's grin widened.

"You'll see."

They settled down to wait. The squad rumbled in forty minutes later, and Johnny and Roy squelched into the day room, looking wet and tired. "Bad run?" Chet asked, obviously doing his best to keep from squirming in anticipation.

Roy shook his head and poured coffee for him and his partner. "No, just cold. And tired of being wet."

"Why don't you go change into dry clothes?" Chet suggested, none too innocently. Johnny sighed.

"What's the point? Right after we change we'll just have to go back out."

"Sounds like you're done," Marco commented.

"Sometimes, yes."

They fell silent then, and a dark, gloomy air fell over the five of them. The air seemed heavy, as if even the earth was tired. The rain had slowed to a fine mist, but you would easily become soaked if you stood outside for any length of time. And, with their luck, they probably would be at some point.

All of a sudden, the warm, still air became a blanket and wrapped comfortingly around them.

As if reluctant to break the oddly content atmosphere, Johnny and Roy sat at the table to just be still for a moment and drink their coffee. Eventually, when he had drained all of the sweet liquid, Roy got up to fetch the log book from the captain's office, then plunked down at the table again. Johnny silently pulled the call slips from his pocket and spread them out in order. The scratch of Roy's pen on the paper mixed with the water dribbling down the drains and lulled them into a sort of waking sleep.

Hank walked in several minutes later to find his men seated in various places in the day room, reading or writing or simply staring off into space. He turned right back around to the office, deciding that yes, the paperwork was urgent after all.

"Marco, can you make chili for dinner?"

"Hey, I'm cooking!"

"Sure, Chet."

"Don't you _touch_ that stove, Lopez!"

* * *

The day passed normally; at least, normally for them. There were no more strange calls that left them wondering how the human race had survived thus far. They were busy and almost constantly soaked. They left their jackets out to dry in-between runs, but the fabric held water annoyingly well and remained wet throughout the day. They turned in a little earlier than usual and settled into their bunks, hoping not to hear the tones until morning.

A few minutes after they'd settled into their bunks, the normal jostling and turning finished, a loud rumbling disturbed the silence. Someone laughed softly, and another groaned. All was silent again until a few minutes later, when the rumbling came again.

"Honestly, Gage, you just ate ten minutes ago!"

"Shut up, Chet. Go to sleep."

"I'm tryin', but you're keeping me up! Seriously – go get something to eat."

"Then I'd have to get up."

"Oh, come on, don't make the rest of us suffer just 'cause you're too lazy to get out of bed!"

"Then go get something for me to eat, if you're so bothered by it."

"I'll do you one better: I'll smother you so you'll stop making noise."

"No good." The new voice came from Roy, sounding drowsy and irritated. "The body can still make sounds for hours after death."

There was a brief moment of silence. Then, "Thank you, Roy, I really needed to know that."

"Yeah, well, it'll take more than death to shut Johnny up."

"Hey!"

Amused as he was by this late-night conversation, Cap decided to put an end to it. "I've got a solution: either shut it or go sleep with Henry."

"Yes, Cap," was his answer.

Ah, finally, some peace and quiet! Hank turned over, satisfied that that was the end of it. He was sorely disappointed.

"What kinds of sounds?" came Marco's curious voice a few minutes later. Cap groaned, but his warning was apparently going to be ignored. Fools.

"Well, gas, obviously. Your vocal cords also stiffen, which can make some really creepy sounds."

"I was not joking," Cap advised, but he doubted anyone was paying any attention to him anymore. He sighed. No doubt Hookraider didn't have a problem with chatterboxes in the night. He probably just ate them if they did.

Huh. Well, that _would_ explain why C-Shift goes through so many probies.

"What else can the body do?"

Great. Now even Mike was in on it.

Roy seemed to be warming up to this conversation. "Um, the skin recedes so it looks like your hair and nails grow. Some…unfortunate muscles relax and you lose control of your bladder."

Slight giggles followed this statement. Roy continued. He was starting to sound like he was enjoying this impromptu lesson.

"Sometimes muscles contract briefly, and it looks like the body's twitching. Also-"

"While we all _love_ hearing about all these _fascinating_ details, may I remind you that we have to work in the morning? I'm sure the citizens of LA would be thrilled to know that their rescuers fell asleep on the job 'cause they were up late talking about bodies and their functions after death."

Another, slightly apologetic "Sorry, Cap," came from behind the brick partitions. He rolled his eyes and punched his pillow to soften it before attempting to go to sleep.

"Did ya know you can still get an erection after death?"

Well, they certainly weren't asleep _now_. Even Hank had to suppress a snort – unsuccessfully – at this, and raised himself up on his elbows to ask, "How the hell does that happen?"

He could just _hear_ the smirk in Johnny's voice. "See, if the body is in the right position, the blood flows down, and…excites the muscles, and, well, you know."

Chet was openly laughing. "You're putting us on."

"No, he's not." Roy's voice was muffled, likely by his pillow. "We have some books on what happens after death, if you want to look at them. They've got some lovely pictures that-"

The resounding "No!" was enough to finally shut them up. But, a few minutes later…

"Gage, seriously, go get something to eat!"

 _Not again!_ Hank let out a long-suffering sigh.

* * *

The tones blared out sometime around two in the morning, jolting them from sleep as the lights blinked on and the dispatcher gave them their directions – out into the hills where the road had crumbled and a car slid off. The engine and squad raced to the scene as quickly as the drivers dared.

"Make a right," John said when they reached an intersection. Roy complied, and the engine lumbering after them followed.

The ever-present rain had slowed to a fine mist as they reached the scene. There were switch-backs in this section of the hills, and a station wagon had apparently rolled from one level to the next one, luckily landing on its wheels again when its movement had been stopped as it rolled against a tree.

The squad, being lighter and smaller, drove ahead of the engine to warn them about any dangers in the road. Finally they reached the car and pulled up past it to a more level spot. Johnny picked up the mic. "Engine 51, Squad 51. Stop when you reach the turnout next to the yellow 'Winding Road' sign. The road's pretty washed out up here, and the engine will have a hard time getting through."

"Engine 51." Hank replaced the mic back on the catch. Mike was driving slowly, carefully watching the right tires of the engine, and relaxed when the turnout appeared. He pulled into it, and the firemen climbed out. "Let's go see if they need the hoses before we lug them up there," Hank said, and the four of them jogged up the road to the wrecked car. It was about twenty feet as the crow flies, but it seemed much longer on the muddy, rocky, winding road.

A rock suddenly twisted under his foot, causing Chet to slip and grab onto the nearest person, who happened to be Stanley. "Careful pal," he said, keeping a hand on Chet's shoulder until he was sure the lineman had his footing back. "I don't want John and Roy to have to treat you, too."

"Sorry, Cap." Chet grinned at his Captain. "You make a pretty good post, though."

"Oh, get moving!" Chuckling, they started up again.

When they finally reached the scene, Roy was leaning in the driver's window and Johnny had climbed in through the shattered back window to check on the family. The back left door managed to creak open, and Johnny backed out holding a small girl in his arms. She was crying ear-splitting wails, and Johnny winced as he handed her to Hank.

"We need to work on the parents. You have kids. Can you calm her down?"

Hank nodded and backed away from the car, doing his best to quiet the three-year old. She looked remarkably unharmed, aside from some cuts and what looked like a broken arm. She would also have some spectacular bruises in the morning. Her guardian angels must have been watching over her that day.

He watched as his men unsuccessfully attempted to open the driver's door. Johnny had climbed in the back again to check on the parents as the rest of the crew worked on the door. They paused for a moment, looking in, and sagged. Stanley knew that something was seriously wrong with at least one of the parents. Trying the door again with a certain determination, they finally gave up and Roy said something to Mike to send him jogging over to the Captain.

"Mother's Code F," he said, and Hank's worry was confirmed. Poor girl. "Father's still alive but bleeding heavily. We need the crowbar. Gage says to call an ambulance. He also wants you to warm her up; an extra turnout would do fine."

Hank nodded. "Tell them I'll go stay at the engine in case you need something brought up." Mike nodded his agreement and went running to the squad as Hank carefully but quickly made his way back down to the engine.

"LA, Engine 51. Respond an ambulance and coroner to this location."

"Engine 51, repeat," the dispatcher said. Hank frowned and repeated. The dispatcher acknowledged the call, and he sighed, setting the mic back on the catch. _Hills must be interfering with the signals._ Hank sighed, set the mic back on the catch, and looked down at the girl on his lap. She had quieted and was staring at the radio with a curious expression in her big blue eyes. He gently moved her hand away from the mic as Squad 86 was called out to a child stuck.

"Don't touch that," he chided, and the girl looked up at him in displeasure. Hank smiled, thinking of his own family, but the smile quickly faded at the thought that this girl would never get to know her mother. He hoped they'd be able to save her father.

He fidgeted as he sat in the cab of the engine, wanting to be up with his men. But he trusted them, and knew that if they needed something from the engine it would be much faster if he was already there.

Oh yeah. Turnout for the girl.

Hank twisted around, sliding open the glass divider to get to the extra turnout they always carried. When he had managed to work it through the small opening, he shook it open and looked down at the girl, who was sitting behind the wheel. "Want to drive, huh?"

She made a small sound, and he realized that it was going to be difficult to get the big jacket on her without upsetting her broken arm. He decided to just drape it around her. It seemed like she was swallowed by the huge jacket.

He'd worked with the paramedics long enough to know the basics of what they would do, so he was guessing that they had the biophone out and were contacting Rampart – if they could get a signal, that was. He wasn't surprised when Marco came on the radio.

"LA, Squad 51. What is the ETA of the ambulance?"

"Stand by, Squad 51." There was a silence for a minute or two, and when LA responded it was full of static.

"LA, repeat."

"Squad 51, ambulance reports ETA is seven minutes."

"10-4, LA."

Hank was watching the bend in the road in case one of his men came around when the girl suddenly squealed in surprise. He looked over to see what prompted her to make the sound. She was reaching towards the windshield with her good hand, a huge grin on her face. He looked to the windshield and saw a large mound of mud coating the glass and dripping off the side. He winced, knowing Mike was going to hate this before another clump of mud hit the windshield and he knew something was wrong.

Getting out on the running board, he looked over the cab at the steep hill above them. Small rocks and clumps of dirt and mud were tumbling down, gathering speed as they went. Hank's stomach twisted as he dropped back inside the cab and tugged the door closed, the window still rolled down.

"Squad 51, look out! Mudslide above you!" He had no idea if they'd heard his warning or not before the earth broke loose and fell.

Hank put his back to the hill and shielded the little girl, who yelped when her broken arm was jostled. He heard nothing above the squelch and rumble of the hill and his own heartbeat, which pounded in his ears. The engine vibrated underneath him as he held on for what seemed like forever.

When the deafening noise finally quieted to low rumble and clatter, he straightened and looked out the front windshield only to see the backside of dirt.

 _Please be all right._

"Squad 51, come in." He waited through only a second of silence. "Squad 51, come in!"

 _No, no, no, no, no._

"Squad 51, _answer_ me! Come _in_!"

Throwing down the mic, his fingers fumbled with the handle as he pushed open the door and scrambled around the little girl, who was playing innocently with a little clump of dirt that had fallen in. Hank stood on the running board again and looked up the road to see it full of rocks.

 _Oh god…_

He scrambled out of the engine and ran up to the bend in the road, and saw nothing but fresh earth. The road was completely covered in debris, unpassable for any vehicle.

 _No._

His heart thudding wildly in his chest and his hands shaky, Hank started forward to help his men, to find them _alive_ when another loud clatter caught his attention even in his panicky state. He looked up to see more rocks falling up ahead. For a moment he paused, wanting to hold back the flood of rocks and earth that would come crashing down again, to see his men safe, to see them grinning off the terror of the last few minutes.

The little girl in the engine wailed, and he was in motion before he could really think.

Even as he ran back to the engine, Hank silently screamed at the earth.

The engine's door shuddered in its frame as he slid behind the wheel and turned the key. A sharp _crack_ made him jump, and a spider web of fractures appeared on the windshield.

 _Oh, Mike won't like that._

Hank watched the bend in the road disappear as he backed the engine away from the treacherous hill. He turned a corner and now split his attention between driving and the radio. He willed it to life, willed Roy's voice to come through. He wanted Mike to start complaining about the dirt and the cracked windshield. He wanted Marco to start speaking rapid Spanish, and he wanted Johnny and Chet to start bickering.

"Squad 51, ambulance reports ETA is now three minutes."

Two turns away. Hank shut off the engine and grabbed the mic with a trembling hand. Ambulance. When had they called for an ambulance? Did they radio for help and he hadn't heard?

 _What's up with Johnny?_

 _Oh, he's nuts._

"Squad 51, do you copy?"

Hank stared at the mic in his hand. Oh. Right. This was the ambulance for their patient. The father. "Engine 51, 10-4," he replied.

He pushed open the door of the engine and froze. His men. He needed to check on his men. He should let them know the ambulance was almost there, to start prepping their patient for transport.

He took one step forward before sinking to his knees, the world spinning around him. His men. No. No. "No!" Hank pounded the mud with a clenched fist, a burning knot forming in this throat. "No, they can't. They can't. They _can't_."

A wailing siren caught his attention, and he stood to face them. The vehicle, its lightly-painted sides splattered with mud, slowed to a stop behind the engine, which sat in the middle of the road. An attendant hopped out, cast a brief, disgusted glance at the mud instantly ruining his white pants, and jogged gingerly towards him.

 _Don't use the sink in the middle._

"Can you move to the side so we can get past?" he asked, tilting his head back to look Stanley in the eye.

He couldn't speak past the knot in his throat, and he was sure his eyes were misting. "No…they're not…they can't…"

"Hey, are you okay?" the attendant questioned him, seeing his expression.

"What's going on?"

 _Get the keys!_

Curious with the hold up, the other attendant had exited the ambulance and made his way over to them. He cast a one look at the stricken Captain and turned to his partner.

"I don't know." The first attendant looked back at Hank, then up the road, and a look of sudden realization crossed his face, immediately followed by sadness. "Captain, where is your crew?"

The question hit Hank like a blow to the stomach, and his knees buckled. He would have sunk to the ground again if the attendants hadn't pushed him back to the running board.

The running board. He hadn't paid much attention to it before now, but it really was a useful thing.

The silly thought crossed his mind even as he looked up at the attendants. "Where…they're…back. There. Mudslide caught them…"

That rambling sentence sent one attendant running to look at the road ahead, only to come back moments later. "Road's gone," he said. "And I mean _gone_. We can't drive any further. I don't know where his men were, but if they were on that road…"

Hank heard no more. He sat forward and screamed silently into the muddy palms of his gloves.

* * *

He could hear voices through the thin door. He had paid no attention to them until he recognized a new one as Chief McConnike. The words weren't discernable, but he could hear their tones: low and worried.

The bed was raised into a reclining position, and Hank was sitting on it, staring up at the ceiling. He had too much time to think, and without anyone there to distract him, his mind traveled back to half an hour ago. He clenched his hands in his turnouts. He wouldn't think about that, he _wouldn't_.

The door swung open, and footsteps preceded a familiar voice. "Hank? How're you doing?"

He looked over. "Chief." He didn't even try to get up into a proper position; all he wanted was to sink into the bed and disappear.

McConnike stepped closer to the bed, his expression uncharacteristically gentle. "I heard about what happened. I know you won't believe this right now, but you need to hear it. What happened is not your fault."

Hank glanced over at him but said nothing. McConnike sighed. "Every captain's gone through this. For you it's just…"

 _Worse because I killed all my men?_

"We're sending out Search and Rescue as soon as we can. The hills are too unstable to search right now, and we're waiting for light. Hank – I'm sorry."

Hank looked back up at the ceiling. He didn't want to talk. He heard McConnike walk to the door, pause, and say, "For what it's worth, I'm sorry." He hesitated, as if expecting Hank to get up and say, 'No, everything's fine! Of course it's all right that my men _died_ cause of me!' McConnike left, and a grim-faced Doctor Brackett entered.

"Once your wife gets here you can go home," he said, but Hank didn't care. Hospital, home, what did it matter where he was? His men were still-

"Try to get some rest." Brackett hesitantly patted his arm in a useless gesture of sympathy, and walked out again. Hank closed his eyes, unwilling to face the world.

* * *

 _How he must be feeling right now…I just can't – it must be awful._

Dixie and Fire Chief McConnike were standing outside the Treatment room. Dixie looked like she was about to cry, and McConnike's eyes were dark.

"He's fine," Brackett said. "Physically, anyway. Mentally…" He trailed off and looked at McConnike. "You know him better than I do. How do you think he's going to do?"

McConnike took a deep breath. "I don't know. As firemen, we deal with death all the time, but it's different when it's one of our own. And for captains, it's worse. To have your whole shift…I don't know."

Brackett nodded, taking this in. He had seen death more times than he could count, and yet it hit him every time. Staying professional took everything he had, especially now. "Then we'll keep an eye on him until his wife gets here. Dixie, tell the nurses."

Dixie nodded, moving away. Brackett watched her go. He knew that she'd been very close to both Roy and John, and he worried about her. This was going to be a rough time for them all.

After a long moment of silence, McConnike spoke. "Well, I…I need to call their families. If you'll excuse me…" He walked slowly away, shoulders hunched as if carrying a great burden. Brackett knew exactly how hard those phone calls would be. He'd had to make far too many since he'd been a doctor.

A hand fell on his shoulder, and he turned to see Doctor Early next to him. "Come on," he said. "Let's go get some coffee." Brackett nodded.

Inside the lounge Dixie was already seated, staring into a steaming cup. "It's terrible," she said as they approached the machine. Brackett glanced at Early and approached the nurse.

"Dixie…"

"No," she said bitterly, turning to face him. Tears were shining in her eyes. "Rule number one, right?"

Brackett swallowed heavily. "Right."

* * *

The rattling of the squad's engine was getting worse. Roy glared down at the dash, willing the vehicle to keep working. _You can't give up now,_ he thought. _Not after everything else that's happened._

"It's painful to hear her die, isn't it?"

Roy jumped, not expecting the normally silent engineer to begin a conversation. "Yeah," he responded, and winced when the engine gave a particularly loud clack.

The quiet fell over the three firemen once more as Roy continued to slowly navigate the squad on the rough road. He peered through a badly cracked windshield, trying to see if the dark spot in the road was a pothole or a rock. With not enough room to go around, he put it dead center and drove carefully over it.

"Charlie's gonna kill us," Marco commented from his seat by the window. "Do you think he can fix it or just scrap it and get a new squad?"

Roy and Mike winced at the thought of the squad getting ripped apart and sold for parts. "I hope he can fix it," Roy answered, absently patting the door. Mike nodded, eyes lifting to the eastern sky.

"Once the sun rises they'll send out search parties."

"Yeah, but we can't wait that long." Roy glanced in the rearview mirror to where Johnny, Chet, and their patient were riding on the cramped rear of the squad.

After another long stretch of silence, in which the only sounds were the rattling engine, thumps, and voices from the back, Marco spoke again. "I wonder how Cap is."

"He'll be fine." Roy's voice was surprisingly steady, even to himself. "He was by the engine; I bet that was out of the mudslide's range."

"We're lucky we were on the edge," Marco continued.

Roy nodded, remembering those few terrifying minutes when he had honestly thought he and his friends were going to die. He remembered crouching by the squad about to start an IV on their patient when Cap's warning had come crackling over the radio, with just enough warning to brace themselves. If they had been any closer to the mudslide they would have been swept away and killed, but as it was the squad took heavy damage. A large rock had bounced off the hood, denting it so much that they weren't able to open it to get to the engine. Dents and scrapes marred the red paint, but Roy was just happy that they were all alive and relatively unharmed. It seemed a miracle, really, that the greatest injury amongst the firemen was Marco's broken arm.

That was, of course, excluding their patient.

Roy's hands were still covered with his drying blood, and if there was enough light he knew there would be blood soaking his shirt and pants. The man had a deep cut in his leg, and although it didn't appear that the artery had been nicked, he was bleeding heavily. They had applied a pressure bandage, but they couldn't sew it up. The most they could do is start the IV, the last instructions they'd been given by Rampart.

Rampart.

Roy slammed his hand on the dashboard, drawing Mike and Marco's attention. "What are we going to do?" he said, frustration making his words higher and more forceful than normal. "We lost our biophone, the radio got taken out, we've got a patient who may or may not bleed to death, we can't get to Rampart the short way cause the _road's_ gone, and the engine's dying! What's next? _Another_ mudslide?"

"Don't jinx it," Marco said mildly. Roy wanted to glare at him, but he didn't dare take his eyes off the road.

"Marco…"

Marco and Mike glanced at each other. "It's not like you to be so unoptimistic."

"Yeah, well, I'm tired and stressed and _really_ worried."

"We all are," Mike said gently. "Jumping at each other's throats won't help."

Roy sighed, all the fight seemingly going out of him in one big breath. "Yeah, I know, it's just…"

"Yeah."

And that was all that was needed to be said.

* * *

"Chet, how's his IV level?"

Chet looked up at the bag. "There's about half."

Johnny lowered his stethoscope, rubbing his eyes. "All right. Look, just – just keep it there. There's nothing we can do until we get to Rampart."

Chet shifted position into something only _slightly_ more comfortable, and looked across at the paramedic. "You look exhausted. Why don't you try to get some sleep?"

"Yeah? Where?" Johnny spread his arms sullenly. "Chet, we're riding _on the back of the squad_! It wasn't exactly made for comfort!"

"I know!" Chet cast a dark look at him. "But you being grouchy and tired isn't going to help him."

Johnny reached down to take the man's pulse for what seemed like the millionth time. "He's my patient. I'm not going to leave him alone."

"He's not alone. I'm here."

Johnny opened his mouth, and Chet expected to get yelled at, but instead the paramedic simply rubbed his eyes again. "Yeah, you are. Look, Chet, I'm sorry I snapped, I just-"

"I get it, Johnny-boy. You're tired. We all are." He yawned and laughed slightly. "I sure didn't expect to be doing this at three in the morning."

John frowned and looked down at his watch. "Is it really three already?"

"Oh come on! You've been staring at your watch every time you take his pulse! Do you mean to tell me you haven't noticed the time?"

"I look at the second's hand, not the hour." Johnny looked blearily across at the lineman. "Cut me some slack, will ya?"

Chet sat back slightly. "Sure. I'm not much in the mood for poking at you right now anyway."

"Great." Johnny sighed, and they rode in silence for some time, swaying with the movements of the squad.

Chet looked up at the dark mass that was the hill above them. Their lights had illuminated it before the mudslide, but now they only had one headlight, and that was weak. For all they knew, rocks could be rolling down towards them right now.

"What is it?" Chet asked finally, seeing Johnny's expression and wishing to keep his mind off that track. Blood was trickling down the side of the paramedic's face from a cut on his forehead, but he didn't seem in any hurry to clean it.

"I'm just wondering if they'll look for us."

"What?" Chet tried to stand, thought better of it, and simply leaned forward. "Of course they will!" Indignation coursed through him. "Why would you think that?"

Johnny didn't look up. "Think about it. Cap was the last one to see us, and he didn't know where we were when the mudslide hit. For all he knows, we were caught up in it. The road's washed out, so he couldn't have driven up, and that second slide would have kept him from walking. And, since we haven't made radio contact, he would have thought we're dead."

The argument was logical, and yet… "Cap wouldn't leave us. He wouldn't give up on us."

Johnny finally looked Chet in the eye, and the lineman was taken aback by the look of the normally energetic paramedic. "He would have if he thought we were dead. And all signs would have pointed that way."

"No." Chet's voice was firm. "He'll look for us. Just you wait. He'll be on the first ride up here."

Johnny held his gaze, but his voice was soft. "I hope so, Chet. I really do."

"He will. You'll see." Chet was determined to cheer up his friend. "He'll come for us."

* * *

The sky wasn't getting any lighter.

Marco watched the eastern horizon, urging the sun to rise up and cast its warm light upon the land. For then the search parties would come, and they would be safe. All of them.

Then, as he stared up at the sky through the fragmented windshield, he noticed something. "Hey, it's stopped raining!"

And it had. The clouds had cleared, and no more water was coming down out of the heavens. He stuck his unbroken arm out the window, just to assure himself that no rain was falling.

"Finally," Roy said. "I couldn't take much more rain."

"Mm," Mike agreed, nodding. "It'll be good to be dry again."

The squad continued to weave her way through the wet hills. Her red paint was dull, covered as it was by mud, her engine's rattling echoing, and yet she marched on. She carried her precious cargo as far as she could, the distance rolling by under her battered wheels. Sadly they had to go up and around the hill before they found a passable road, and several times they thought they'd found one that looked fine before they rounded a turn to find rocks cluttering the path and they had to back out.

And then, just as she curved the last corner to start heading down towards home, she could go no further.

The sky was finally – _finally!_ – lightening when a loud _snap_ made them all jump and look down at the hood. Roy pressed down the gas pedal, but the truck would go no further under its own power. "Damn it!" he muttered, stomping on the pedal. "Go, go, go!"

"She's gone, DeSoto," Mike said softly. "Let her be at peace."

Roy groaned as the squad rolled to a stop, its one remaining headlight flickering weakly before fading altogether.

"I guess we leg it from here," Marco said, trying to sound upbeat, but failing miserably. He cradled his broken arm, which the paramedics had splinted, trying to ignore the pain. "At least it's all downhill from here."

"Yeah, we'll just get on the stokes and slide down."

Roy chuckled. "Thanks, guys. Come on, let's get our stuff together."

They climbed out of the front and walked around to the side. Johnny looked over the railing. "What's up? Engine die?"

"Yeah." Roy tugged open one of the smaller compartments near the wheel. "We're gonna have to walk."

"Great day for a hike." Johnny yawned and turned to Chet. "Keep holding the IV while we get the bags ready."

Every squad carried emergency survival kits for two, stocked with water, basic first aid, maps, flashlights, small rations, and other, small things. The paramedics carried scissors and small pocket-knives on their person, but the regular fireman didn't.

They spent a minute deciding roles. The patient would be carried on the stokes, so they put on their gloves. After a long time of holding it, the metal would start to bite into their hands. Marco carried the drug box, regarding it with a sort of possessiveness. His arm had been broken while he reached for it during the initial mudslide, and it appeared he wasn't about to let his pain go to waste. Everyone else took a corner of the stokes. Roy and John were carrying the packs.

"Right, on three." Roy crouched and grabbed the metal railing. "One, two, three!"

With some groans they managed to get the stokes up waist-high. "Jeez, what's he weigh?" Chet grumbled, adjusting his grip.

"Oh, suck it up."

"Easy for you to say, Marco!"

Marco grinned. "Sooner we start the sooner we get to sit down. Now, left-right-left-right-left-left!"

"Left-left? What, are you trying to kill us?"

"Just lightening the mood."

"Oh, ha-ha."

"At least the sun's coming up," Johnny yawned, cutting into what could easily turn into a full-blown argument. "We won't have to stumble around here in the dark for much longer. What time is it, anyway?"

"Five-forty," Roy answered, studying his watch. "How far do you figure we are from the station?"

Johnny, as the best navigator in the group, took a moment to remember the maps burned into his memory. "Uh...'bout six miles. But that's on winding roads, so about seven."

The group let out a collective groan. "We've got a ways to go."

"Yup."

They started the long walk.

* * *

Doctor Brackett exited Treatment Room 3, leaving behind yet another victim of idiotic thinking. No surprise alcohol had been involved.

He made his way over to the base station, pouring himself yet another cup of coffee. Dixie was sitting behind the counter, scribbling furiously at a schedule. "They can _never_ work this out on their own!" she cried, flinging down the pencil. " _Honestly_. It's like I'm babysitting a bunch of two-year olds."

Brackett looked over her shoulder at the work schedule on the counter. The slots had been filled in, erased, refilled, and scribbled over. "Happens every month," he agreed. "Why don't you just do it yourself?"

She glared up at him. "Because then I get people coming to _me_ , and all _this_ is in my _head_!"

Brackett winced. A crabby Dixie was something to be avoided at all costs. If they put her in charge of public safety talks, the emergency room would be deserted, if only to avoid her lectures. "Our shift's over in…" He glanced at the clock. "Now, actually. Why don't you go home, take a long, hot shower, and come back tomorrow. I'm sure it'll all make perfect sense then."

She sighed, rubbing her eyes. Brackett watched her long, curved fingernails with some concern, a little worried she would stab herself in the eyes with them. They _couldn't_ be regulation length.

"I could, Kel, but then I'd think about them, and I can't. Not right now."

Them. Brackett was doing his best to avoid that subject entirely. Not the easiest, with paramedics trooping in all the time looking like their favorite puppy had just been run over.

No, scratch that. Firemen were one of the closest groups of people he'd ever seen. They were grieving for their family.

Family…Captain Stanley's wife had come in to take him home about an hour ago. That had not been a fun conversation.

"Tell you what," Brackett said, eager to get his mind away from its depressing spiral. "Why don't we go out and get something to eat before we go home?"

She paused. "No one's open at this time in the morning."

"I'm sure we can find somewhere."

Dixie studied him for a minute. "I've got some leftovers in the fridge I can heat up real quick."

Brackett smiled. "That sounds lovely."

"Great." Dixie stood, taking the papers with her.

"Oh, no." Brackett tugged them out of her hands and set them back on the counter. "Leave those here."

"Kel…" Dixie straightened the papers. "If I do, the vultures will come back and mess it all up again!"

"More than it already is?"

"Oh…" She brushed past him. "Change and meet me at my apartment. You can sleep on the couch."

"Well, then." Brackett put the coffee mug next to the pot. "I see how it is."

"Yeah, yeah."

Brackett made his way to his office, glad that they could take their minds away from things, even if just for a few hours. As he left, one of the new nurses smiled at him.

Well, at least they were pretty vultures.

* * *

As he slowly woke from his deep sleep, Hank felt a warm hand rubbing his own. _Not at the station, then,_ he thought. Opening his eyes and blinking a few times to clear the blurriness, he saw his wife sitting in a chair next to his bed.

"Hey, honey," he said softly. "What are you doing?"

She looked up at him, smiling. "Oh, you're awake! How do you feel?"

Feel? Did he get injured? Hank looked around the room, recognizing it as his bedroom. Oh yes, now he remembered driving home and collapsing on his bed. But wasn't he on duty? He took stock of his body. No, nothing hurts. So why…

"Hank?"

Jumping slightly, he looked up at his wife. "Yeah?"

She laughed. "You spaced out for a minute there."

"I did?" Hank glanced away. "Sorry."

"Oh, it's fine. I just…how are you doing?"

"Doing?" He frowned. "I'm fine, why would I…"

Then it hit.

The call. The family. The little girl. The mudslide. His men. Chief McConnike.

 _Oh god no._

"My men," he whispered, looking once more at his wife. She stared down at the blanket, unable to meet his eyes. "Have they…"

She shook her head, still not looking at him. "No. It's six-thirty. He said – said there's something going on in the Angeles Forest and Search and Rescue is tied up. They won't…can't start yet."

No.

Hank shut his eyes, turning away from his wife. Anguish rolled through him, clawing open bloody holes in his heart.

Five holes.

Why? Why did this happen?

Hank clenched his hands in the blanket, wanting to take it all back. Why hadn't he…he could have saved them. Why didn't he?

"Hank, do you – do you want something?" His wife's voice was hesitant. "Food, water…I can cook some bacon. You like that."

How were they gone, just like that? He had been talking to them just a few hours ago…how could it happen this fast? They couldn't – they couldn't just leave him like this. They couldn't!

He was too far into his own mind to notice his wife leaving the room. His eyes were shut, but he was seeing the squad, his men, the hills, the mudslide…

 _Thank you, Roy, I really needed to know that._

Their voices, the voices of dead men echoed in his mind.

 _Aw, come on! Can't we just skip his turn?_

His throat burned. His men. He'd let them down. Were they – were they angry?

 _Hey, Cap. Hey, Henry._

Henry!

Hank surged out of bed, filled with a sudden need to see someone, _anyone_ from the station. He wasn't thinking about anything else as he got up and made his way through the house, finding his boots by the door. He was still wearing his uniform, but as he opened the door his wife appeared from around the corner.

"Hank? What are you doing?"

"Henry. I have to go get Henry."

"Henry?" For a moment she was utterly bewildered, and he used her distraction to take a step out. "But you're – oh, the dog?"

Hank froze. "He's one of us," he growled. He didn't expect her to understand; even the other shifts didn't have as close a bond as A-Shift did with him.

"O-Oh. Um, hold on just a moment."

Right. Hank stepped out and closed the door behind him. He was going to see Henry, whether she liked it or not.

He'd only gotten as far as the next house before the car pulled out of the garage, stopping next to him. "I'll drive you there," she called, and he only hesitated for a moment before getting in.

After all, did it matter how he got there? He just needed to see Henry, _alive_.

* * *

The sun had risen now, and they could at least see the rocks and ruts in the road so they weren't stumbling every five seconds. Still, their arms and shoulders burned from carrying the patient on the stokes for so long. They switched sides every once in a while, but it didn't help much. Instead of the steady jog they'd been taught to keep, they were walking as fast as they could – which really wasn't all that fast.

Johnny flexed his fingers as much as he could, just to keep his blood flowing. Looking up ahead, he saw that the road they were on was still angling down on the dirty road. He mentally calculated the distance.

"Four miles," he called. The only response he got was an annoyed grunt.

After a few more minutes they stopped, exhausted. They sat down next to the stokes to catch their breath. For several long minutes there was no talking.

Johnny sat with his long legs sprawled out before him, facing off to the side. There weren't any trees there, but the early-morning chill had so far kept the sun from baking the land. He looked up to see a bird circling them from far above. It didn't look like a vulture, but he thought, _Not today. Not us. Get a meal somewhere else._

The bird caught a draft and soared away, in search of a meal in places unknown. Johnny sighed, pulling off his backpack. "Who wants water?" he called, and immediately four hands shot up. Johnny pulled out one of the two in his pack and cracked it open, taking sip before passing it on. "Don't drink too much," he warned, watching as the others enjoyed the refreshment. Oh how sweet water truly is.

When the bottle circled back to him it was about half drained; he screwed back on the cap and tossed it back into his pack, zipping it up and slipping the thing back on. Then he reached over and put his hand on the man's chest, raising left wrist up. After a minute he pressed his fingers to the inside of his wrist and again kept his eyes on his watch. The man's IV had long ago run out, so they'd taken it out.

"How is he?" Chet asked suddenly. Johnny looked up, startled.

"We need to get him to the hospital." A quick glance at the bandage around his thigh showed a deepening pink, but at least it wasn't as heavy a blood lose as before.

"Do you need to get anything out of here?" Marco nudged the drug box. Johnny eyed it for a moment before glancing over to Roy, who lifted his shoulders slightly.

"No," John answered at last. "Let's get him to Rampart before doing anything."

"Guess that's our cue to get moving again." Mike stood, bending to clasp the metal railing loosely. "Come on, let's go."

Obeying the man who was technically in command, they stood, lifting the patient as gently as they could. Chet glanced down at him. "Shouldn't he have woken up by now?"

Johnny took a moment to get in rhythm with the other men before answering. "He lost a lot of blood. He's got to make that up."

"Don't worry, Chet," Roy put in. "He'll be fine." His and Johnny's eyes met for a moment. Johnny looked away up the road. They were just entering the city, and somewhere in the chaotic, sprawling mess of roads and people sat little Station 51. Home.

"Come on," he said, trying to cheer himself up just as much as the others. "At least we're back in civilization."

It was true. They were walking above a neighborhood situated just at the base of the hills. Someday the houses would extend into the hills, but for now the nice, two-story, picket fence enclosed homes were on level footing.

"What it must be like to live up here," Chet whistled, looking down at a particularly nice house with tall, arching windows.

"Yeah, it's a step up from your house," Marco grinned.

"Watch it, or I'll go back there and break your other arm."

"Ooh, I'm _so_ scared. Mama, help me!"

"What are you looking at me for?" Mike gave him an indignant look. "Do I _look_ like your mother?"

"Nah, of course not. She's much prettier than you are."

Mike's eyes narrowed. "Just remember that _I'm_ the one who drives the engine. Mind where you walk."

Marco snorted shifted the grip on the drug box. "Oh, you wouldn't hit me."

"And why not?"

In unison, the other four men said, "'Cause you don't want to scratch the engine."

Mike glowered at them for a moment, before relenting. "Yeah…but I _do_ know where the axes are."

"My dad always said to beware the quiet ones." Chet twitched his mustache at the engineer. "Boys, don't ever go to sleep. Mike'll get you!"

Mike simply grinned.

"And he's used up his quota for the day. We won't be hearing anything out of him anymore."

They fell into silence once more, though this time it wasn't dark and gloomy. Movement caught Johnny's eye, and he looked to his side to see Roy jerk his chin at the firemen walking before them, then mouthed, _Good their spirits increased._

Johnny nodded slightly. _Yeah,_ he mouthed back. After working together for so long, the paramedics had learned to read each other. It was a necessity, really, since they often worked in places where it was too loud to talk. Their silent communication had evolved over time, almost becoming a sort of language.

Roy glanced up at the cut and dried blood on Johnny's head. _Hurt?_ John shook his head, but Roy stared at him until he gave in.

 _A little. I'm fine._

Roy made a circular motion in the air with his free hand. John rolled his eyes and patted his ribs with his own free hand then pointed at Roy. He'd noticed the stiff way the senior paramedic would move, and figured that something had happened to his ribs. Johnny had perfected the art of moving and trying to mask pain, and so could recognize the signs in someone else.

Roy tapped his wrist and made a chopping gesture just above it. Then he jabbed his hand at Mike. Johnny carefully watched him walk, surveying the engineer for injuries. _Foot?_ he mouthed, and got a nod in return.

So, Mike had a foot injury. Or at least…something in that general vicinity. Their language wasn't perfect, after all. John would keep an eye on the second in command.

Their medical observations not yet complete, John nodded at Chet. Roy took a moment before answering, rolling his shoulder.

Johnny narrowed his eyes in confusion. Chet hurt his shoulder? He wasn't showing any signs.

His confusion must have showed, as Roy let out a silent sigh then pointed at each firemen before mouthing, _All of us. Sore shoulder. Later._

Oh. Well, yeah. Of course they'd be sore. They didn't normally carry someone for so long or for so far. Johnny made sure Roy knew his annoyance with pointing out such an obvious fact before looking ahead. They were so close!

Then he got an idea and his hand went to his pocket. "Damn it," he growled. Everyone looked round at him.

"What is it?"

"Well, I was just thinking that we could call for an ambulance, but I don't have my wallet. Do you guys?"

Hands went to pockets, and heads shook. Several curses were audible. They didn't put their wallets in their bunker pants.

* * *

Hank stared at the brick structure before him. Normally, the red brick was a sign of comfort, something familiar and stable to welcome them home after a run. Now it just reminded him of memories: some good, some bad.

 _Bridge, burger. Take your pick._

Everything reminded him of them: the grill out back, the parking spaces, the basketball hoop.

"You sure you want to do this?" His wife's hand patted his knee, but he barely felt it. He knew he was trembling, and pushed the door open to hide it. He walked across the parking lot, remembering how, just about a day ago, he had crossed this exact space, his only worry about getting wet.

He reached the door, stretched a hand out, and turned the knob. It was locked. The chief probably came around, since the station was likely stood down.

Hank unlocked the door – all captains got a set of keys – and walked in.

It was eerily silent inside. Normally, even if they were sleeping there was a sense of… _people_. But now…

Henry. Where was Henry?

He wasn't in his normal spot on the couch, so Hank started searching, heart thudding in his chest. Where was he? "Henry," he called, hearing and not caring about the unusual tone in his voice. Where was Henry?

He started moving faster as he searched each room – the day room, the office, the empty bay, the dorms, the lockers, the latrine. He even opened the shower door. Nothing. Henry wasn't there.

He wasn't _there_.

Everything came crashing down.

Hank sank to his knees, shuddering as great sobs made their way through his body. He didn't care if his wife saw. He didn't care if he looked like a pathetic coward.

He put his back to the cool tile wall curling in on himself. His fingers threaded through his hair, gripping tight. It was if everything up until now had been held back by a great dam and the dam had just shattered. He sucked in a ragged breath, curling in on himself on the latrine floor.

 _Squad 51, look out! Mudslide above you!_

 _Squad 51,_ answer _me! Come_ in _!_

He wasn't sure how long he stayed there, but at some point he felt hands on his shoulders drawing him forward, and soon his head was resting against someone's shoulders. A voice was speaking to him, trying to soothe him. He didn't listen.

The hands returned, pulling him up and guiding him along. It was as if he was in a daze; suddenly he was in his car, then at home in his bed. The darkness returned, full of flashing red lights and falling rocks.

* * *

The Search and Rescue men weren't having a good day. They weren't even eight hours in and already they wanted to go home, crawl in bed with their wives or girlfriends and just ignore the world's problems for a few hours. After the disastrous run in the Angeles forest, they were disheartened, eyes dark as they slid back into their seats to begin another search.

Although, at this point, they weren't expecting any type of 'rescuing' to be going on. They were expecting a recovery.

"Copter 1 heading out from base," the pilot said into his headpiece. He glanced back at the men slumped in their seats, buckling in. "We're refueled and just about to head out, guys."

"Yeah," one muttered before putting his headpiece on. The rotor blades were just beginning to spin, and they could still hear one another without the tech. "Lot of good it'll do."

"We have to at least try." The pilot, Jeff, flipped a switch and hesitated before switching off the private channel. People didn't need to hear how dispirited they were. "Guys, this one's different. We're looking for a station of firemen. We've worked with these guys before."

"A whole _station_?" Drake shook his head. "Damn, what happened?"

"Mudslide," Jeff said shortly. The whine of the motor had kicked in, and they were now talking to each other on the coms.

There was a collective exhalation of breath. They all knew how deadly mudslides could be.

Jeff lifted them off the ground, turning the helicopter until he had the targeted hills dead center in the front windows. They made good time getting there. It wasn't hard to find where the hill had broken loose, sending mud and rocks cascading down like a demented waterfall.

 _If they were in that…_ he thought, but didn't complete his thought. He had a job to do. "Right, guys, you know the drill. Be on the lookout."

The men muttered and shifted to their sides of the helicopter to peer through the windows down at the hills below. For a long time there was nothing, just the chopping of the rotor blades overhead. Jeff really hated this part of the job. At least when they saw someone they had something to do, some goal to push towards. But just searching – it felt hopeless. He felt useless.

"We're getting pulled. I'm gonna have to move away for a bit." He warned the crew even as he maneuvered the copter out of the dangerous column of air that was beginning to suck them down. He brought his bird forward then up and away, above the ridgeline.

"Hey, there!" Adam, the last man on the flight, yelled excitedly. Jeff recognized the tone in his voice. He saw something. Not a person, but something.

"What is it?" The weight in the helicopter shifted from Drake switching sides.

"Look – there. The sun must'a reflected off the metal."

"Where is it and what is it?" Jeff asked, slightly irritated. "I'm just going in circles, here. I'd appreciate some directions."

"Eight o'clock," Drake answered. "We saw their truck."

"What?" If he hadn't worked with them long enough, he would've thought they were joking. "Their _truck_?"

"Yeah, just keep turning. You can't miss it."

And he couldn't. The red, however muted, was the distinctive color of the squad, exactly what they were looking for. Jeff brought the helicopter to a more level spot and let the others exit, running hunched over to the squad. They looked it over, opening the doors and checking the front seat. Adam went around to the back. He came back moments later, shoulders raised and palms up. "No one's here!" he shouted into the headpiece.

"Damn," Jeff muttered.

"Yeah, but at least one of 'em's alive," Drake said, sliding out of the front seat. "Someone had to drive it. Let's look farther down the road. Maybe they walked."

By the time the two had gotten the doors closed, Jeff had already appraised dispatch of what they found. There was a sense of renewed excitement as they lifted off above the road and followed it down from the air. Drake and Adam were crouching on one side of the cabin peering through the window.

"Hey, dispatch wants to know how the truck looked," Jeff called back. Drake, the older of the two, raised a hand to his mic.

"Really beat up. I think their engine might've quit on 'em; the hood was so dented I couldn't get it open."

Jeff passed along the message and continued to follow the road down. There weren't very many ways they could go, so he wasn't exactly surprised when Drake told him to set down, that they'd found them. "How many?" he asked, unable to suppress the excitement in his voice. They were all brothers, out here, and he hated family getting hurt.

"One, two, three, four, five," he heard Drake muttering. "Five. And one on a stretcher."

"That's not a stretcher," Adam 'helpfully' pointed out. "That's a – hey!"

Jeff smirked, knowing the younger man had just gotten a 'helpful' smack on the back of the head. "I'm gonna land," he called, spotting a flat spot not far away from the firemen. He could see them now, having circled a few times. The men had set down their stokes and were waving and cheering. He waved back.

It took less than a minute from the time he set the skids down to the time the first fireman was on board. "Good to see ya," Jeff called back, twisting in his seat to watch.

"Wasn't sure you were ever gonna come," the fireman said, then stuck a muddy hand up to him. "I'm Marco."

"Jeff," he answered, eyeing the dirty hand. "You know what? Why don't we hold off just a little on that?"

Marco withdrew his hand. "Yeah, we are a bit dirty, aren't we? Sorry 'bout the mess." He didn't sound very sorry.

"Ah, relax. It's all good." Jeff hesitated a moment, hearing someone grunt in pain. "You all here?"

"All six of us." Then there was a bit of a shuffle, and Marco was forced to sit up in the other front seat. "Whoa, _that's_ a view."

Jeff glanced over at his arm and the black box on his lap. He said nothing and instead brought them all into the air once the doors closed. His bird felt much more cumbersome and slow in the air than she normally did, but he accounted that to having six extra, fully geared men in the cabin.

"I'm taking you to Rampart," he said, unsure if one of the firemen had a headpiece on. Apparently one did, as a new voice came over the line.

"Sounds good. Thanks for the lift."

"It's no trouble. Looks like you guys needed it."

"We didn't look forward to walkin' all the way there, that's for sure."

"I'll bet not."

And with that, they fell into silence, except for Jeff updating dispatch and telling them to contact the fire department. They had found their men.

Very soon after they landed on the helipad at Rampart, and a couple transport ambulances were waiting for them on the very edge, rolling forward when the rotor blades slowed enough. The paramedics and their patient left on the first, and the other firemen on the next. Jeff watched them go, satisfied that they were in good hands.

"Let's go home," he said to Drake and Adam. They flew back, in a considerably better mood than when they left.

* * *

His ankle was really starting to hurt.

Mike rolled it slightly, grimacing when white-hot pain shot up his leg. "You gonna get that checked out?" Marco said, and Mike glared up at him.

"You gonna get _that_ checked out?"

"Of course. Johnny and Roy already know it's hurt. But I'm not sure they know about yours."

"Humph." Mike crossed his arms and leaned against the side of the ambulance. "Of course I am."

They fell into a short silence then, before Chet spoke up. "Man, I've never been so glad to see a helicopter in all my life. I thought we were gonna have to walk for sure."

"Yeah," Marco agreed. Mike saw that the drug box was still on his lap.

The next half hour was a blur. They were taken into Rampart and checked out. They were put in the same Treatment Room, either by the doctors recognizing their need to stick together or to minimize space usage. Either way, they were happy.

Mike's ankle was wrapped, for which he was glad. It was not broken or fractured, so he'd be off duty for a shift but then he'd be fine. Marco's arm had a clean break, but he'd be back soon. Chet was already complaining about his shore shoulders, but once the doctors figured out he was fine they just ignored him. A bandage was put on the gash on Gage's head, and Roy's ribs were just bruised. Overall, everyone seemed surprised by how remarkably unharmed they were. Roy and Johnny were ushered out of their patient's room, so they didn't know how he was, but they said they were fairly confident he wouldn't die, at least. One good thing.

They were shown into the doctor's lounge to wait after taking short showers and given scrubs to wear. Their clothes were waiting for them in the doctor's lounge afterwards, and Mike immediately claimed the couch, putting his foot up on the armrest. He was asleep almost instantly, and hardly noticed when Marco came in, his arm in a cast. The guys swarmed the coffee pot, devouring the caffeine like there was no tomorrow.

The high of getting to Rampart was wearing off when the Chief walked in. They were scattered around the lounge, in various states of awareness, and Roy was the first to notice him. He nudged Johnny, who was sitting beside him. Slowly the men became aware of the new arrival, and turned to watch the Chief, who stood in the doorway just taking everything in. He didn't know what to say. None of them did.

Finally he took a deep breath and crossed the room to the coffee pot, pouring himself a cup. Five sets of eyes followed him. Then he turned and leaned against the counter, sipping from a cup. "It's good to see you again," he said. No one answered. The Chief took another sip. "Your captain was taking it hard."

Marco looked out the window. Johnny traced the rim of his own cup. Mike tapped a finger on his stomach, still lying back on the couch.

"I haven't called him yet," McConnike continued. "I'm not sure he'd believe me unless he sees you with his own eyes."

Still there was silence. They had nothing to say.

"I got the station's dog, Henry. Took him home. He couldn't stay in an empty station, you know."

Mike sat up. Roy shifted in the chair.

"I expect a full report. From each of you. Something like this doesn't happen lightly."

They nodded. They expected nothing less.

"I called your families. They didn't…I never want to have to do that again."

No doubt. They didn't plan on doing it again.

"Well…no sense crying about it." McConnike sighed and rinsed out his cup, setting it to dry on the drain rack. "Come on. I'll give you a ride to the station, then you're all going to Hank's house."

There was no arguing with the Chief. Besides, it had to be done. They drove first to the station to change and get their things, then got their separate cars – those who could drive, at least – and went to Stanley's house. There was a bench next to the door, and Mike and Marco sat on it while McConnike knocked. Mrs. Stanley opened the door, took one look at them, and stepped aside.

"I'll get him," she said once they were all inside, and disappeared up the stairs. McConnike ushered them into the living room and went to wait for the captain in the hall, to break the news. They heard him talking just out of sight, and the next moment Hank appeared in the doorway, still in his uniform top but sweat pants. He was staring at them all, not saying a word.

Silently, almost without really making a sound, they lined up at attention right in the middle of Hank's living room, waiting for his reaction. He stepped forward to inspect them all, pacing up and down their formation. McConnike and his wife waited back a few feet.

Finally Stanley stopped at the head of the line at Mike, stared at him for a moment, then reached out and pulled him into a fierce hug. He did the same for each man, whispering. "Thank God. Thank God."

When he released Johnny he sank down onto his couch, head in his hands. "You okay, Hank?" McConnike asked hesitantly, putting a hand on his former engineer's shoulder. Hank sighed and glared up at his men.

" _Never_ do that again, you hear me? Never again."

* * *

It took some time for them all to get well enough to all work on the same shift, but finally they were all together again. That shift was a quiet one, at least, until Johnny went to the restroom.

"Chet!"

The men in the day room looked up, one smirking and one alarmed, already half out of his seat before the cry's echoes had even died down. Then a certain, upset fireman/paramedic stomped into the day room, wet and angry. "That better have been water," he growled, advancing on Chet. The other man put the table between him and the soaked man.

"Of course it was. Don't you trust me?" Johnny growled, lunging, and Chet went running from the room.

"Help!"

The guys snickered. Hank relaxed back into his chair, satisfied that things were back to normal.

Well, mostly normal. He would keep a closer eye on his men for a long time to come, and he'd certainly glare at the sky if it rained.

But that could be fixed with time. For now, all he wanted was to read the newspaper with Henry, who was fast asleep with his head on Hank's lap. The klaxons blared, sending the men to their feet in a surge of adrenaline, though three relaxed when only the squad was called out. Hank tore the call slip from the pad and passed it through the window to Roy, who handed it to Johnny.

He patted the squad as he stepped back, and watched as it went wailing out of the station. He watched as the bay door squeaked down.

"Hey, Cap, chow!"

A minute later saw the four around the table, eating and joking. But one kept an eye and ear open for the bay door and the squad.


End file.
